


bound for the shady grove

by triggernometry



Category: Flight Rising
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-06-29 17:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19834861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triggernometry/pseuds/triggernometry
Summary: If a wounded stranger falls in the swamp, and Boneset's around to hear it, are they morally obliged to help?Yes, apparently.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this story's been sitting in my WIP folder for... ever, so maybe if I start editing and posting the finished chapters I will, y'know, actually finish it. Stranger things have happened!
> 
> My dragons are big ole furries unless otherwise noted

The heavy splash of swampwater displacing makes [Boneset](http://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&id=2226&tab=dragon&did=40763112)'s heart just about leap into their teeth. They freeze mid-step, balanced on their striding stilts in the middle of the deep end of a grey-green stretch of water. Loud noises in Leechroot are uncommon, and can mean only one thing: trouble.

Boneset is still and quiet for a moment, turning their head slowly to survey the swamp around them. The bonewood trees around their pool sit close together, forming a visually impenetrable wall of ashy green bark freckled with rusty lichens and bruise-coloured shelf fungus. The source of the splash is nowhere in evidence. The only proof it even happened is the hammering of Boneset's heart in their chest and the conspicuous silence of the swamp around them: the birds are quiet, the cicadas have shushed, even the faint breeze that occasionally manages to snake in between the trunks seems now to be holding its breath in anticipation.

The pearlcatcher slowly, carefully reorients themselves to begin the slow process of turning around and heading home. Collecting spiderwort flowers will just have to wait for a less ominous day. They manage a couple mincing, quiet steps in a homeward direction before the splashing starts up again, albeit now less intense and accompanied by the distant sound of ragged sputtering and breathing.

Boneset lets out a breath carrying one single, extremely explicit oath in a whisper and turns around again, somewhat faster this time. Their hearing is good enough to point them in the right direction for the source of the sound: it's coming from the direction of one of the pilgrim's paths spiderwebbed through Leechroot, just on the other side of a bramble thicket from Boneset's current location.

They wade through the pool and onto the soggy peat bank holding up the thicket and its attendant trees. The stilts sink into the bank easily, and pull up again with a soft _sthup, sthup_ noise just as effortlessly, and Boneset makes their way with practiced ease over the brambles, leaving only a few strands of their overlong mane behind as they go. They pay the tug at their mane no mind, intent on investigating the source of the noise and putting their curiosity to bed once and for all.

Their eyes don't immediately land on the source of the noise once they cross the thicket and come out to the stretch of still water on the other side. Boneset swivels their ears to and fro, listening hard for the slightest tell-tale noise of something out of place – and finds it in the faint slap of water against something that isn't peat bank.

There: lying facedown half in the water, half on the bank to Boneset's left. A body. Boneset gives a grunt that's almost disappointed and strides over to it.

It's [an imperial](http://flightrising.com/main.php?p=lair&tab=dragon&id=2226&did=44045779), dressed in Wastelander gear. The lapping sound is from the part of their leather vest where it's sunk below the surface of the water. Boneset gives the body a poke with the foot of one stilt. It's very, very fresh.

The imperial groans, a sound muffled by the proximity of their mouth to the peaty soil under their cheek. Boneset sighs, plants their stilts in the peat, and hops off to land by the imperial's shoulder. It takes some doing, but they manage to get the body turned over and – yep, that's a pretty good number of bullet holes for one dragon's stomach.

“Gutshot,” Boneset says, glowering at the hat still somehow affixed to the imperial's head. “Of course.”

They look up into the interlacing branches of the canopy above, as if looking for divine insight on the question, _Why are Wastelanders so god damn stupid?_ Halfway back to looking down again, their eye lands on a shape just at the other edge of the water: a Wastebred, saddle askew, reins trailing, watching Boneset with serious eyes the colour of sunset. Its body is dark red like fresh-split heartblood wood with legs dark as soot, splattered all over with mud and swampwater. The imperial must've fallen off; that's probably what the big splash was. Boneset looks back down at the body.  
  
The imperial manages to crack one eye open to look up at them. She coughs, displacing mud and something red from her mouth that stains the fine braids of her beard.

“Help,” she says, in a voice so thin and weak Boneset can scarcely hear it – but of course they _can_. The imperial's eyes slide closed again and her head lolls to one side.

Boneset sighs. “You just had to do this in _my_ swamp.”

The imperial doesn't answer; she's out again. Boneset presses two fingers against her neck, feels her pulse going. Fine. _Fine._ Boneset puts their hands on their hips and thinks. There's no way they'll ever be able to move her by themselves; they need a plan.

And the imperial needs to not bleed out while they think about it, probably.

Boneset sets about scouring the immediate vicinity for hanging moss – and, this being Leechroot, has no trouble collecting enough to make an entire bed out of the stuff, if they so desired. They bring the moss back to the imperial and hunker down beside her. They stuff a handful of moss in their mouth and begin to chew while they assess the damage. They count three holes in her vest. They pick at the buttons for a moment or two before growing impatient, drawing their knife from their side holster, and cutting through the vest and the undershirt both with a few decisive swipes.

The moss has gone to mush in their mouth. Boneset spits it out in their hand and uses it to paste over the holes in the imperial's gut. They cut strips out of the imperial's shirt and manage to create a makeshift bandage out of that and the unchewed remainder of the moss.

 _Now_ they can think.

They look around. Their eyes fall on the Wastebred again, still standing there, still staring back at them. Boneset clicks their tongue against the back of their front teeth.

Well. In for gold, in for diamond.

They cross to the Wastebred's side of the water slowly, making a soft shushing sound they've heard coach drivers using on Wastebreds before. One wrong move – which could be _any_ move, with these things – and the Wastebred could easily overpower and kill a dragon, especially one as slight and short as Boneset.

But it's the only one of them currently capable of hauling an imperial through the swamp, so...

Boneset extends a flat palm to the Wastebred's nose for sniffing; the beast snorts, then leans in to get their scent.

“Easy,” Boneset says, eyeballing the creature's tusked mouth with a pang of concern. “Let's say you don't bite me and I'll give you a bone to chew on when we get home, hmm?”

The Wastebred snorts again. Boneset reaches up and slowly, carefully runs their fingers through the clot of forelock sticking out like half-blown cattail seed from its forehead. The beast doesn't bite, which Boneset takes as a good sign. They catch up the reins and guide it back over to the body, and it follows them as easy as anything.

Getting the damn imperial's body up and over the Wastebred's back is a chore. By the end of it Boneset is sweaty, out of breath, and aching in most of their body. They strap the wading stilts to the Wastebred's side and then begins the journey back home, guiding the beast on foot with the reins wrapped loosely around one hand. They follow the pilgrim's path as far as they're able – which is not far, by design, because Boneset prefers to meet as few strangers as possible without an appointment first. That's _why_ they live in a _swamp._

The Wastebred, to its credit, takes easily enough to moving through uncut swampland. There's only a few stumbles, and one extremely worrisome moment where Boneset is sure the body will tumble right off the beast's back, and right about there is where Boneset thinks carefully about just slitting the imperial's throat, chopping her into fine chunks, and using her meat as frog bait.

The body doesn't fall off the Wastebred. Boneset does not use the imperial as frog bait, and, eventually, they push through the last line of dusky thorn bramble and bonewood and enter the clearing of Boneset's front yard.

They coax the Wastebred as close to the house as possible – which turns out to be just to the porch stairs. The creature sniffs the first stair skeptically before snorting, shaking its head, and taking one step back.

“Fair enough,” Boneset says. “You've done your part, I suppose.”

They unstrap the stilts and set them to lean against one leg of the house, then set about unfurling the imperial from the Wastebred's back. Boneset thinks about frog bait at least a hundred times while hauling the imperial by the armpits up the stairs, through the door, and into the house.

The imperial looks comically large and out of place in Boneset's house; she's at least a head and a half taller than the pearlcatcher, causing her legs and tail to dangle well over the foot of Boneset's bed.

Boneset does not dwell too long on the fact that their bed is going to be completely destroyed by the time this affair is over.

They cross to the storage cabinet standing tall against one wall and open the glass-fronted door to retrieve their medical supplies. Their eye falls on a crystal-clear bottle on the shelf at eye-level. They pluck it out, uncork it, and take a sip. Then another. They'd rather not waste too much of the town doctor's painkiller on someone who could well die – but they _will_ need a clear head for this. They stow the bottle away, close the cabinet, and return to the task at hand.

Their collection of medical supplies is not inconsequential or unimpressive: Boneset's done enough home surgeries on themselves to have amassed quite an assortment over the years. They settle on a fine-edged scalpel and needle-nosed forceps and take a seat beside the imperial on the bed.

“Lucky for you, I've pulled far more troubling things out of _myself_ ,” Boneset says. The imperial does not respond, making her an ideal conversational partner.

It takes some doing, and a lot more swearing, before Boneset's managed to pick every last shard of bullet out of the imperial's gut. Boneset knows little about firearms – too noisy, and if Boneset's going to kill somebody, it's probably going to be personal enough to require the intimacy of a good shanking anyway – and can only deduce that the gun (or guns) in question were used by somebody reasonably capable of aiming and firing their weapon. Illuminating.

Somehow, the imperial doesn't wake up during all this. Boneset has to pause several times to make sure she's not just secretly dead, but – no. She's still there.

Boneset drops the bullet fragments into a bowl and sets them aside for later examination. Who knows, they might well be useful in charmsmithing, assuming the imperial doesn't want to keep them as a souvenir.

They paste the holes over with more chewed-up moss drenched in tincture of tachinid juice and plantain leaf and wrap it all up with fresh – real – bandages.

“Good enough,” Boneset says, surveying their handiwork. “Now all you have to do is not die.”

The imperial does not respond, which endears her even further to Boneset. She is, at least, still breathing, and her heartbeat seems to have leveled out some. As far as they can tell, the bullets didn't manage to tear through anything too vital – flesh notwithstanding – and the blood from the imperial's mouth seems less punctured-lung-related and more due to a half-bit tongue and a cut lip.

They sit back and try to take stock of the situation. Boneset feels – truly disgusting, point of fact. Their mane is sticking to their forehead in unpleasant clumps. They've got at least a hundred varieties of yuck splattered and smeared across their hands, arms, and clothes. At least the painkiller's taken the edge off the ache in their bones, or they'd be feeling _especially_ put-upon by now. They clean up the makeshift surgical suite enough to make it look less like a cluttered nightmare and then head out through the back door and into the rear yard.

The rear yard is little more than a dirt patch Boneset's reinforced with some rocks and soil collected from beyond Leechroot, raised up high enough to make the yearly hike in the waterline be merely annoying instead of devastating. There's enough room for an outdoor oven, a smoke shed, and – the crown jewel of Boneset's home improvement efforts – an outdoor shower.  
  
Boneset collects water from a barrel nestled up against the side of the house with a metal pail and begins filling the shower's holding tank. They strip off their clothes, enjoying the feeling of no longer being covered in _as much_ dirt, blood, and general filth as before.

It occurs to them they'll probably have to get used to not walking around skyclad if they're going to nurse this imperial back to health.

 _And_ they'll probably have to make some kind of curtain for the shower. Boneset sighs. Maybe it's not too late to make frog bait, after all.

A curious snort draws their attention to the corner of the house. Oh, right: the Wastebred. The creature is currently peering around the corner of the house, ears pricked, watching Boneset with open curiosity.  
  
Boneset clucks at it, and the creature comes over readily enough. It's weirdly friendly, for a Wastebred. At least, so far as Boneset understands the breed. They move carefully around the beast, unbuckling the thing's saddle and gingerly pulling it off. The Wastebred turns its head to regard them with interested eyes and Boneset decides the bridle can stay on – getting too close to its mouth seems like just tempting fate outright, at this point. They hang the saddle on an unused drying rack.

“I suppose I did promise you supper,” Boneset says. The Wastebred nickers softly and shakes itself all over.

They've no idea what to feed a Wastebred – not really – so they just offer it a little of everything: scrap cuts from the smoke shed, a basket of blood acorns, and the carapace of a goliath beetle Boneset's not yet had time to hollow out.

The Wastebred tears into all three offerings with gusto and Boneset watches the thing eat with something akin to fascinated disgust until remembering themselves and getting back to the business of taking that shower.


	2. Chapter 2

The imperial does not die, and Boneset does not turn her into mincemeat for the wildlife.

The imperial, in fact, makes it through the night and wakes up in the morning – no doubt inspired by the smell of Boneset frying ranthpones on the stove. Boneset finds themself begrudgingly cooking more than one portion of ranthpones even before the imperial stirs, and takes comfort in the notion that at least now the extra helping of food won't go to waste.

“Uh,” the imperial says as she catches sight of Boneset padding across the floorboards, plates of food in each hand. “Hullo, miss.” A pause; the imperial blinks a few times, squinting at Boneset. “Sir?”  
  
“Either's fine,” Boneset says, setting one plate on the side-table by the bed. They hand the other to the imperial, who takes it with careful, sheepish movements. “Neither's better.”

“Yes'm,” the imperial says. She winces, and Boneset deduces it's probably not from pain. “Y-es,” she says again, more deliberately.

Boneset takes a seat on the chair they used to patch the imperial up and plucks the plate of food up from the side-table. Their breakfast is somewhat more than Boneset's usual efforts, mostly on account of how much work it is both to get shot and to take care of somebody who's been shot: ranthpones cooked in podid lard with a side of stewed stinglashes and a strip of fried toridae meat.

“This sure is a meal,” the imperial says. She sounds genuinely impressed. “You cook this nice for all the strangers you find dyin' in the swamp?”

“No,” Boneset says drily. “But I decided it would trouble me to have you staring while I ate.”

The imperial laughs, then coughs, then makes a low grunt as the combined laughter and coughing no doubt stir up the wounds in her gut.

“Hell, that tickles,” she says. “How many slugs you pull out of me?”  
  
“Three in about a hundred different pieces,” Boneset says.  
  
“Sorry for the trouble, but I thank you for taking it.” The imperial stuffs half her ranthpone into her mouth and chews thoughtfully for a bit before swallowing it down. “I don't know what would've become of me if you hadn't come along.”

“Judging by how hungry it was, I will hazard a guess that your Wastebred would've eaten your corpse,” Boneset says flatly.

“Lucky!” the imperial cries, just about dropping her plate. Boneset startles, but manages to keep their plate in their lap. “You got Lucky? You _fed_ her? Is she all right? Where's she at?”

Boneset gestures to the small house with one sweep of their arm. “In the yard, one supposes. It elected not to run away in the night, so I fed it again this morning.” Boneset spears the butt-end of a stinglash with their fork and examines it. “Your animal eats a lot.”

“And she's all right?”

“A little dirty, I suppose. Otherwise, fine.”

"And, uh -- you happen to save any'a the stuff she was carrying? Saddlebags and whatnot?"

"Didn't much count them," Boneset says. "Saddle's on a rack outside, with all the bags I know it to have. Didn't leave anything behind in the swamp." They get the distinct impression the saddlebags' _contents_ are more interesting to the imperial than the quantity, so they add: "I didn't consider it my business to take inventory."

The imperial settles back into the bed a little, letting out a long breath. Boneset's not sure if the sigh is one of relief or exasperation. Maybe both.

“Thanks for takin' care of Lucky,” the imperial says after a moment. “I don't know _what_ I'd do if she got lost out here.”

“Earn the eternal gratitude of the toridae,” Boneset says, eyeballing the strip of meat at the end of their fork thoughtfully before biting into it.

“Uh.” The imperial slurps a stewed stinglash and uses a hunk of 'pone to sop up the juice from her plate. She seems to think about it for a minute before giving a low chuckle. “Sounds about right, yeah. Thanks for takin' us in, anyway. Real nice of you.”

There's an expectant pause there. Boneset is vaguely aware she probably expects them to say _no problem_ or _don't worry about it_. Boneset doesn't say anything, and continues eating.

“Name's Henbit, by the way,” the imperial says, after a while. She shifts her grip on her plate so as to extend one hand toward Bonset.

The pearlcatcher regards the hand coolly. It wouldn't take much effort to lean over and give it a shake. They don't move.

“Boneset,” they say.

Henbit retracts her hand after another moment or two, apparently unruffled. “Well, Boneset, I wish we coulda met in better circumstances, but it's a pleasure anyway.” She flashes a smile – a surprisingly sweet and charming smile, considering the aforementioned circumstances. Boneset elects to focus on their food.

They finish their plates at about the same time. Boneset collects them and moves them back into the kitchen while Henbit makes a staunch effort to sit somewhat upright.

“You ought to practice staying still,” Boneset says as they return to the imperial's bedside.

Henbit gives a sheepish grin. “Been hearin'  _that_ my whole life.” 

“Your odds of healing without complication drop the more undue stress you put on the wounds,” Boneset says.   
  
“Can I see 'em?”  
  
They regard her for a moment. She looks genuinely curious, which – well, okay, not that weird. Boneset's been fascinated by their own injuries before, too. The pearlcatcher helps her get into a better sitting position and then slowly unwinds the bandages from around her middle.

Henbit gives a low whistle as the bullet holes come into view. “Hoo-ee,” she says in a quietly awed voice. “Ain't that a sight.”

“The bullets missed the important parts,” Boneset says. They decide to capitalise on the opportunity to clean up the wounds a bit and freshen up the moss paste. “But there's a risk for infection, so I left the holes open for drainage – the paste will accelerate healing and reduce pain.”

“Oh, I don't feel much,” Henbit says. She gives one wound an experimental poke.

“Don't _touch--_ ”

“See, I ain't feelin' a thing,” Henbit continues. “I probably slept through the whole surgery, too, huh?”  
  
“...well, yes. I did wonder about that.”

“I don't feel pain, unless it's _real_ bad,” Henbit says. “Most time it just tickles a whole bunch." She's quiet a beat, engrossed in poking at her own injured belly. "One time, I punched a guy _so_ hard—”

Boneset can feel a story coming on. They hurry up re-wrapping the bandage and stand up quickly.

“Only time will tell how the wounds heal,” Boneset says. “You have people I can send word to?”

“Huh?” Henbit looks up from her bandage with a slightly confused quirk in her brows.

“ _Friends_ I can _contact_ to come _get_ you,” Boneset says with exaggerated emphasis and slowness. This imperial is very quickly wearing their patience thinner than it already is.

“Oh, uh.” Henbit seems to think about it a minute. “Not _friends_ , exactly, but I oughta send a message to my boss.”

Boneset lets a long, low breath out between their teeth. A boss doesn't exactly sound like the kind of person to trouble themselves to come over and _remove_ this chatterbox from Boneset's house, but it'll just have to do. “I suppose you can write?”

“Ain't a calligraphist exactly but I get the job done,” Henbit says with a smile.

Boneset crosses the room to the storage cabinet. They root around in the drawers and cupboards for a bit, drawing out a folder of blank papers, a pen, and an inkwell. They stand on tippytoe a bit to reach up over top of the cabinet, feeling around a bit until their fingers catch on the edge of the enamel serving tray up there.

They come back to Henbit – who has apparently been watching them with an altogether too interested expression this entire time – and lay the tray across her lap, low enough so as to avoid bumping her wounded gut uncomfortably.

“Ought to make a fine enough table for now,” Boneset says. They set the pen and inkwell on the tray and draw out _a single_ sheet of paper from the folder to lay out before the imperial, followed by a matching envelope.

“Hoo, that's fancy,” Henbit says, holding up the inkwell and turning it around appreciatively in her hands. “You know they got things called _ballpoints_ up in Rachidian nowadays? They're like regular pens but they got the ink already in 'em--”

“I'm familiar with pens, yes,” Boneset says drily.

“--an' a lil nubbin inside that makes the letters come out real smooth,” Henbit finishes. She plucks the pen up and studies the sharp nib for a minute. “This is real nice, though.”

“I'll leave you to it,” Boneset says. “The post moves through Cruckhook at noon.” They feel around in their vest and pull out their pocketwatch: a silver thing so given over to tarnish that the engraved fallout streak in flight across its lid is almost entirely obscured. “That's in about an hour.”

Henbit smiles and nods, and Boneset gets the distinct impression that they're going to have to connect the dots _for_ her.

“Cruckhook's more than a half-hour's walk from here,” Boneset says.

Henbit touches a finger to the side of her head and grins. “I gotcha. I'll be quick about it.”

Boneset leaves the imperial to it. They get their gear together while she writes, stowing a flask of water and a bag of dry rations into a traveling sling. They pause, think better of it, and add a couple of homebrew smoke bombs to the bag, as well, just in case. They don't relish the thought of walking all the way to Cruckhook for this damn fool's letter but – well. If there's even a slim chance civilisation will want to come collect her, Boneset'll take it.

“All done,” Henbit calls from the bed. She holds out the unsealed envelope for Boneset to take when they come over. “You can read it, if you want. Only wrote nice things 'bout you, though.”

Boneset ignores the smile on Henbit's face and stares down at the address on the envelope. It's to some name Boneset doesn't recognise from Biskbrill, the merchant village just on the lip of the County seat in Rachidian. They feel a stab of annoyance; a no-name from Biskbrill is even _less_ likely to come collect their fool.

Boneset seals the envelope with a dab of wet cloth from the kitchen and stows it away in their bag. “You're situated 'til I get back, I assume?”

Henbit gives a little salute. “Yes,” she says. “I really do appreciate it.”

Boneset nods once, grabs the travel sling and swings it over their shoulder, and opens the door to head out.

“Wait!”

Boneset turns, one eyebrow raised.

“Take Lucky,” Henbit says. “Please. She'll get you there faster an' it's the least I can offer after everything you've done.”

That's a terrible idea, but one Boneset nonetheless considers. They're not especially experienced around Wastebreds, aside from a passing familiarity obtained through osmosis living in the County. Henbit's mount seems gentler than most specimens Boneset's met or heard about, but – no.

“I'll make do,” Boneset says. They ignore Henbit's clearly disappointed expression and head out onto the porch.

The wood of the porch is still damp from the morning mist, which has mostly disappeared aside from where the shadows of the trees are deepest. What light filters down from the miasma through the interlaced fingers of the trees gives Leechroot an amber-green cast. Boneset pulls the door closed tight behind them, stares a bit too long at the green-yellow light filtering through the trees, and sighs. They do not relish the walk ahead.

They're halfway to the treeline at the edge of the yard before they hear it: the heavy footfalls of the Wastebred thumping against the soft soil, alerting them to the beast's approach from around the side of the house. Boneset turns to find the beast plodding right on up to them like they're old friends. They tense up as the beast gets close – too close, in Boneset's opinion – and reaches out with its snout to sniff at their traveling sling.

“Not for _you_ ,” Boneset says, but in a very small voice. Something about the Wastebred's dying-fire eyes and the gleam of the tusks hanging out of its mouth puts them off. The size of it doesn't help, either.

"You _stay_ ," Boneset says. They're not fool enough to think the beast actually understands a word of draconic, but, well, talking to dumb beasts _has_ been the theme of the day so far.

They turn -- somewhat reluctantly, uncertain about the strategic soundness of turning their back to the Wastebred -- and start off through the trees towards Cruckhook.

After a moment, they hear the distinct plodding of the Wastebred's steps behind them. They sigh, and don't bother turning around -- at this point, being run down and eaten by a Wastebred seems preferable to trudging through Leechroot to deliver a letter for some nobody to some _other_ nobody who probably won't even do Boneset the courtesy of sending a coach to come get their wayward employee.

The Wastebred doesn't charge, of course; it just settles into step behind them and keeps pace for a good handful of minutes before the dull _thump thump thump_ of the thing's feet get the better of Boneset's patience and they whirl on it.

" _What_ do you _want_ ," Boneset says, knowing full well the Wastebred won't have an answer for them. "Your master's back _there_." They raise one hand and point behind the Wastebred for good measure.

The beast draws up short and stands there a moment, gazing at them with a faintly curious expression. It flicks its ears to and fro a moment, and then, slowly, hunkers down into an awkward kneeling position with its forelegs crooked into the soft swamp soil. The sentiment is clear enough: _Get on._

Boneset would be inclined to praise the beast for such cheek, but for the moment, all they can feel is indignation. "You _watched me_ struggle with that lout rider of yours when you could've done this the _whole time_?"

The Wastebred snorts, but does not move.

Boneset regards it for a moment. Then they look around, taking in the swamp, and then up, to the light filtering feebly through the canopy. Assuming the best of the Wastebred, riding it to Cruckhook _will_ save them time. And trouble. And pain.

"Well," Boneset says, frowning into the Wastebred's ear, which is cocked to the sound of their voice, "if you _do_ elect to throw me, see to it I fall on my neck -- otherwise I'm liable to hold a grudge."

The Wastebred does not reply. They sigh, and catch up a clump of the Wastebred's mane to brace themselves as they clamber -- slightly awkwardly -- onto the beast's back. They've picked up some knowledge of riding from listening to idle chatter in Biskbrill; not enough to constitute real expertise that they'd stake their name on, but enough to keep them from sliding straight off as the Wastebred hauls itself back up to its full -- and, in Boneset's opinion, _entirely_ too much -- height.

Beast and dragon are still a moment, unmoving, and Boneset gets the impression they're both quietly sizing each other up. They slowly take the beast's reins in hand. In hindsight, being too afraid to remove the thing's bridle yesterday was a blessing in disguise. Gently, almost gingerly, Boneset gives the reins a light tap against the Wastebred's neck, in what they hope is a gesture communicating a desire to go forward. The Wastebred slips into an easy walk without complaint, its gait so smooth Boneset can scarcely feel it moving.

"You remember what I said, now," Boneset says after a handful of uneventful minutes riding, "the _neck._ "


	3. Chapter 3

Boneset does not want to think that the trip to Cruckhook goes smoother on the Wastebred, but they know damn well it does. Unsurprisingly, the beast doesn't much trouble itself about the uncut swampland, taking the ups and downs of peat bank and water trails without so much as a displeased snort. Better still, Boneset only needs to give the beast passing instruction to keep them going in the right direction.

And, they have to admit, traversing Leechroot on a mount feels _pretty_ cushy compared to their usual method.

By the time they reach Cruckhook, Boneset catches themself talking softly to the Wastebred and reaching down to give its rough-scaled shoulder a pat every now and again. The Wastebred seems – well, _not annoyed_ by the display, if not exactly charmed by it in any way Boneset can read.

They emerge from the overgrowth and the Wastebred huffs loudly to itself as it climbs up onto the firmer embankment of Cruckhook's pancake-flat road top. Boneset gives a little pull on the reins to get the beast to stop. They look up Cruckhook and then down again, trying to listen for the sound of approach from either direction. They reach into their pocket and draw out the watch; they _should_ have made good time.

They get their vindication eventually, as the sound of wagon wheels rumbling on Cruckhook's earthy pavement reach their ears. In another minute, they see it: a Crookwing Courier coach painted the world's loudest shade of green and darkest shade of red carrying letters and packages all the way from Waysign.

The two Wastebreds pulling the coach are stout and moving perfectly in sync with one another. They're of an equitable heft and height such that they could well be just a single animal with altogether too many legs. Only their colours distinguish them: one a dusty grey with a fiery red head and legs, the other patchwork gold and white.

Driving them is Crookwing's founder herself, Lunatone, an old wildclaw with one wing too crimped and shrunken to ever properly bear her weight in flight. Boneset's never asked, though they can tell the wing's shape has some magical anomaly attached to it. Asking would seem to invite a story which Boneset has no desire to hear.

Lunatone slows the Wastebreds as she sees Boneset, and tips her hat at the pearlcatcher as soon as the beasts pull up even beside them on the Road.

“New ride?” Lunatone says, smiling and eyeing the Wastebred under them appreciatively. "Looks a right runner."

“Not mine,” Boneset says. “Borrowing it to deliver this.” They draw the letter out from the sling and lean over to offer it to Lunatone. The wildclaw gets to her feet and leans out over the road to bridge the gap.

“That important, huh?” She sits back down on the bench and gives the letter a cursory glance. “All the way to Biskbrill.”

“It better be,” Boneset says.

Lunatone stows the letter in her breast pocket and touches two fingers to the brim of her hat. “I'll get it where it needs gettin',” she says.

“Appreciate it. Afternoon.” Boneset gathers the reins in their hands again and backs the Wastebred up a bit to make sure there's plenty of room for the coach to pass.

“Afternoon,” Lunatone says. She gives the traces a light snap and the paired Wastebreds start walking; Boneset watches her go only until the coach is well out of the way, then turns the Wastebred and heads back into Leechroot.

The return trip is almost pleasant, not that Boneset would admit as much to anyone. The Wastebred seems to have a good enough memory of where they mean to go. Boneset finds it easier to just hang on and let the beast do its part, and they take this opportunity to soak in the sight of Leechroot from a novel vantage point.

The flora closest to Cruckhook is the least congruous with the rest of the swamp, owing in large part to the contamination of travelers on the Road coming up from the Crinoline or down from the Deep Country. Cruckhook's borders are patchwork with megamycelia gamely trying to push out the swamp's native bonewood, heartblood, and weeping ash trees, with all parties draped in a veil of moonseye vines from nearby Sourwater Springs. The mooneyes' white, bruise-tipped blossoms are shut tight against the hazy glare of the day, making the swamp seem studded in fine, needle-like teeth.

Farther from Cruckhook, the swamp looks more familiar to Boneset: dense with its native trees arranged in snaking clusters following the peat beds and skirting the deepest pools, draped in seeker's-beard moss and fringed with the luridly purple shelf fungus to which the swamp owes its name.

Over the soft thump of the Wastebred's footfalls, Boneset can hear birdsong, the drone of insects, and the distant chitter of some muskrat displeased to be awake at this hour. They pass makeshift meadows of still water bookended by thickets of dusk bramble and see woodear deer wading placidly in the shallows to graze on floating masses of bayroot. The peace of the swamp holds for much of the return trip, and Boneset feels themselves lulled by the easy calm – so much so, in fact, that they never quite register exactly when the silence deepens, turns less ponderous and more anxious. They can't be more than a minute from home when they feel the dread in the air start to creep over their skin.

Boneset takes the Wastebred's reins in hand and draws back on them slowly, bringing the beast to a halt. They turn their head to and fro, eyeing up the swamp. There's nothing immediately, visibly _wrong_ with the scene, but their ears tell them otherwise. The birds are completely absent now, the ambient insectile whine likewise gone. Even the breeze, such as it is, seems to have suddenly discovered pressing business elsewhere.

A sharp slap of water makes Boneset nearly jump out of their skin. Their head snaps around to catch the last glimpse of a woodear bolting away into the stand of heartblood to their left.

Boneset loosens the reins and gives the Wastebred a nudge with the heel of one boot. “Easy,” they whisper.

The Wastebred gets moving again, slower this time. The beast's ears are pricked forward, with the left one making occasional sweeps from front to back, listening, ostensibly just as perturbed by the sudden silence as Boneset is.

They manage to make it to the trees bordering Boneset's front yard before they find the problem. Boneset draws the Wastebred up short again, just barely clear of the trees, eyes fixed on a point only yards ahead, just beside the stairs.

There's a woodpile which wasn't there when they left for Cruckhook.

The Wastebred's ears go back and Boneset feels the beast squaring up under them. They press a hand to the beast's neck, feel the pulse kicking hard just under the skin. Boneset slides off the Wastebred's back, going slow, so slow they're hardly moving at all – and still it doesn't seem slow enough. The whisper of fabric over hide is _too loud_. Boneset nearly winces when their feet touch the soil beside the Wastebred, even though the soft earth easily swallows up the sound of their steps.

Up ahead, the woodpile sighs.

Boneset freezes, gaze locked on the heap of sticks and leaves and bark patterned like eyed heartblood wood. They wait. The woodpile is silent again, and does not move.

They turn long enough to make a _stay_ gesture at the Wastebred – which they dearly hope it can understand – and then start for the rear yard, taking the long, circuitous route along the row of trees framing the clearing.

Boneset desperately does not want to take their eyes away from the woodpile – but they occasionally have to so as not to trip over exposed tree roots or step on any particularly treacherous twigs or leaves along the way. They get around the yard far enough to get a look at what must be the back of the woodpile, and Boneset can see where the layers of woody-looking chitin grow unevenly against each other, forming a ridge along the woodpile's back that breaks its illusion of being a simple heap of scrap bark and bramble.

If they stare hard enough, they can see the slow rise and fall of its sides, even from this distance.

Boneset makes it to the rear of the yard. They take two breaths to steady themselves before moving toward the outdoor oven.

Movement out of the corner of their eye catches their attention, too close to be the woodpile but still enough to make Boneset's heart make a quick leap for their tongue all the same. It's Henbit, half-leaning, half-sagging against the drying rack by the house, rifling intensely through one of the bags of her saddle. She looks up, catches sight of Boneset, and visibly startles enough to nearly send her reeling tail over teakettle.

She steadies herself on the horn of the saddle in front her with one hand and gives Boneset an inauthentically jaunty wave with the other. "Hey--" she starts, in what to Boneset's straining ears sounds approximately as loud as the Pillar crashing down about a hundred times over.

"Shut _up_ ," Boneset hisses in a loud whisper, swiping the air in front of them with a furious slash of one hand: the universal gesture for _cut that out_ now _._

Henbit's eyebrows rise in surprise. Boneset jabs a finger in the direction behind Henbit's shoulder, and the imperial cranes her neck around to have a look. She must see the woodpile, she _has_ to, but it's clear it doesn't strike as much fear in her heart as it does in Boneset's.

"What's the big id--"

" _Shut your damn fool mouth_ now _,"_ Boneset snaps, no longer whispering, but not quite shouting, either.

Behind Henbit, a spiky bundle of splintered chitin and woody hide lifts itself up from the woodpile and orients itself in Boneset's direction. The thing doesn't have any eyes, but Boneset can tell it's staring right at them, anyway.

" _Hell_." Boneset spins on their heel and strides for the oven. They rip the wooden plank serving as a door away from the oven's mouth, exposing the handle of the heavy iron skillet they left in there a few days ago. Boneset's never felt more vindicated about not taking proper care of this skillet than they do in this very moment.

Behind them, there's a hideous chittering, clattering sound that puts Boneset's teeth on edge and makes Henbit finally take notice of the current predicament. The woodpile's stood up and shaken itself all over: the discordant clattering is the sound of all of its many serrated, jagged edges rubbing against one another as it moves. The beast gives Boneset a headache just to look at: they can't quite tell the woodpile from the swamp around it, or even the woodpile from itself. The thing takes a step -- at least one, by Boneset's reckoning -- and the however-many limbs it has all seem to bleed together like water spilling over fresh ink. 

Boneset crosses the distance between themself and Henbit, just in time to catch the tail-end of Henbit breathing " _What'n the world_ " and for the woodpile to bolt into action. Henbit's momentarily frozen; Boneset gives her a push on the shoulder and hisses " _Move_ ," and, to her credit, she does -- just not in the way Boneset would prefer. Henbit turns back to the saddle and draws a revolver out faster than they has time to draw breath and call her a fool. Henbit aims -- half steady, Boneset notices -- at the charging woodpile.

The gun clicks hollowly. Boneset lets their eyes leave the oncoming woodpile long enough to look at Henbit, who turns her head to flash them an apologetic half-grin.

"Outta bullets," she says sheepishly.

Boneset lets their breath out through their nose in a loud sigh, snatches the gun out of Henbit's hand and holds it barrel-first like a hammer. They give the butt of the gun a solid whack across the back of the frying pan, producing a teeth-jarring _clang_ deep enough to tunnel right to the marrow.

The effect is immediate. The woodpile, only half its body length away now, skids into a staggering halt, loosing a pained snarl through a maw of jagged brambles and broken branches sharp as spears. Boneset stares into the hollow of the thing's throat and takes a decisive step forward. They bang the gun against the skillet again, harder this time.

The woodpile shrieks, rearing back on its hind legs and pawing at the air with thorn-studded paws. It comes back down hard on its forequarters and makes a swipe for Boneset -- but they're ready with another _clang_ of gun on skillet and the woodpile falls back a step, snarling. Boneset closes the distance -- now close enough for the thing to stretch out its vine-wrapped neck and bite their head off if it so desired -- and bangs the gun against the pan again.

The woodpile retreats, and Boneset follows, banging the pan as hard as they can, until they reach the edge of the yard. The woodpile does not turn and flee into the heartblood trees bordering Boneset's yard so much as it absorbs itself into the bark with one last indignant shriek and disappears into the early-afternoon haze of Leechroot beyond.

Boneset stands a minute at the treeline. They keep the pan and revolver ready, not entirely convinced the woodpile's gone. The silence in the aftermath of all that clanging and shrieking and snarling is almost deafening, less an absence of sound and more an oppressive _thing_ in its own right, bearing down on Boneset and making their spine pull tight. They don't relax until the swamp does, until the silence backs off and makes room for birdsong, the hum of insects, the easy amble of the breeze through the trees once again.

They let their arms drop to their sides; the skillet in their hand is now _incredibly_ heavy, and the wrist connected to the hand holding it aches something fierce. Little pinpricks of painful heat skitter up from their palm to their elbow. Boneset holds their hand out for a minute, palm-down, and watches the unsteady jitter and spasm of their fingers. Well. That'll be a _no_ on chopped rootvine tubers for dinner, then.


End file.
